In Which N Takes M
by SadArticle
Summary: George and Emma Knightley's wedding night, without drawing a veil or fading to black. My first Jane Austen fan fiction, which must perforce be buried in the 'M' rating for smutty content! Gentle readers pass on, all other brave souls, please review!


_Author's note: A final warning – although I have attempted to add a little romance, this is basically soft porn, inspired by the long-awaited union of two passionate but patient characters in Jane Austen's novel Emma. If the phrase 'Jane Austen would be spinning in her grave' comes to mind, then do not read any further!_

'In Which N. Takes M.'

Emma Knightley brushed through her long, brilliant hair, watching herself in the mirror atop the dressing table. The face in the looking glass met her eyes with a maidenly blush, sharing her anticipation of the night ahead.

With a glance at the chamber door, Emma touched a trembling hand to the neckline of her nightdress, tracing the lace frills down to the ribbon tied beneath her breasts. She felt embarrassed in the thin linen gown, underdressed both for the season and for Mr Knightley.

For George, she corrected herself, for her husband.

Emma wondered how she would look to him. She was his wife now, his lover, no longer Miss Woodhouse or a 'nonsensical girl'. Viewing her reflection through his eyes, she saw only the obvious curves of her barely disguised figure beneath the impractical gown.

At least my hair offers a little natural modesty, she thought, tumbling over my shoulders like Lady Godiva's.

She hadn't worn her hair down in company for many years, not since Isabella had married and left home. Emma didn't want Mr Knightley to think of her as a young girl, or a little sister. Should she dress her hair down her back instead? Sweeping the long, loose waves behind her, Emma reappraised her reflection.

Less girlish, perhaps, but now she had even less cover than before. She crossed her arms over her chest, feeling the rapid, rolling beat of her heart beneath.

A soft knock at the door drew a startled breath from her lips, and she stepped swiftly away from the mirror. "George?" she whispered as the handle turned and the door creaked open.

George Knightley, at first glimpse of his new bride standing at the foot of the bed, stopped on the threshold. Emma tried to read his expression but his dear face, more familiar to her than her own sister's, was cast in silhouette against the light from the hall.

"Come inside," she managed to say, "and close the door."

He did as she bid him, but without taking his eyes from her.

Emma laughed nervously. "Why do you look at me like that?" she demanded, folding her arms again. The distraction only succeeded in drawing his attention to her ample charms, however.

"How beautiful you are," he told her simply.

"A wedding gift from Isabella," she said, fingering the lace at her neck.

"Are you nervous, my love?" Knightley asked, moving towards her.

Emma nodded quickly. "Are not you?"

"Exceedingly," he agreed, stroking her face, "but also the happiest I have been in years."

Knightley drew her into his arms, and she hid her blushes against his coat.

"But are you happy, my Emma?" His voice whispered into her hair, and she realised that she had not answered him before.

Emma looked up at him. "Yes," she laughed. "Oh, yes!"

Gazing into her eyes, he lowered his lips to hers. Such intimacy should have embarrassed her more than appearing before Mr Knightley _en dishabille_, but surprisingly, thankfully, being with him only felt natural. She gave herself to his kiss.

Her husband smiled at her. "Should we retire early, Mrs Knightley?"

"I am ready for my bed if you are, Mr Knightley," she teased.

"Saucy tongue," Knightley said, feigning disapproval. "Alas, I am _not_ ready," he added, reaching for his cravat. "Allow me but a moment to cast off this finery, and I shall join you."

"Let me help," Emma announced, then bit her lip. Was that too forward, even for a bride? No matter. "I shall be your valet," she offered, making light of her words.

He frowned at her. "And what do you know of a valet's duties? Or indeed, men's clothing?"

"I know that removing a coat and cravat cannot be as intricate as unfastening a gown that buttons down the back," she quipped, deftly applying her fingers to the practiced knot beneath her husband's chin. "See? Mere child's play."

Knightley allowed her to unwind the strip of linen from around his neck. "Then perhaps I may be trusted to undress myself?" he asked, shrugging one shoulder out of the fine blue coat he had changed into after the ceremony.

"Ah-ah," Emma chided, stepping behind him.

He felt her hands on his shoulders, drawing the sleeves down his arms, and turned to find her neatly folding the coat in half. She tossed it behind her onto the low stool before the dressing table.

"I believe a valet would take more care of such an expensive garment," he instructed with a smile.

"Your waistcoat, sir," she said, and went to work on the embroidered buttons.

Enjoying the game, Knightley watched her fingers fly quickly down the row of buttonholes until she came to the gold chain of his father's watch.

"For heaven's sake!" she muttered under her breath.

Laughing to himself, he unhooked the chain and dropped it with the watch into his pocket. "I am afraid I could not recommend you as a gentleman's gentleman," he told her, stripping out of the waistcoat.

Emma took it from him, adding to his impromptu wardrobe on the seat behind her. "Then a gentleman's lady I must remain," she said, smiling. "Look to your own wardrobe."

Suddenly aware of the moment, Knightley was unable to muster a single response to her playful challenge. He unfastened his cuffs, nearly losing one of the buttons, and then loosened the waistband of his breeches.

Finally, taking a deep breath, George Knightley took off his shirt in front of the former Miss Emma Woodhouse, a display that still seemed indecent to him. While drawing the collar and then the tails over his head, he had to remind himself that they were now man and wife.

With a final ironical flair, he handed his shirt to her. "For your collection," he said.

Entranced by the first sight of her husband's body, Emma dropped the linen on the floor. She stepped forward and touched her hands to his chest, watching her fingers caress the dark hairs that grew around his nipples.

Pulling her close, Knightley kissed her again and again, his lips moving from her temples to the curve of her neck and, brushing aside the short sleeve of her gown, the smooth sweep of her shoulder. He could smell orange blossom in her hair, and taste the sea breeze on her skin. The overpowering familiarity of being so close to her filled him with passion.

"Oh, my Emma," he sighed, and, lifting her against him, carried her to the bed.

Kneeling at her feet, Knightley gazed for a moment in rapt adoration at her beauty. He still could not believe that she was now Mrs Knightley, that she belonged to him. When Emma lowered her gaze, embarrassed by his attention, he took hold of her hands and pressed his burning lips to the gold band on her ring finger. It seemed easier to demonstrate his love than to speak of it.

His touch was thrilling every nerve in her body. Trembling with blind anticipation, Emma wanted him to move closer, go further, without knowing what that meant. She trusted that he would instruct her in love, as in life, and for once she was content to wait and ready to obey. He turned her wrists to kiss the tender flesh there, and she welcomed him into her arms as he traced a questing, insistent path to her mouth.

She caressed his skin, feeling the smooth planes of his shoulders and the shifting muscles below. Her initial surprise and discomfiture had quickly given way to fascination – here was the real man beneath the familiar visage and gentle manners of Mr Knightley, her old friend, and after this night she would know him intimately.

Strong, warm hands began to move up her legs, raising the lace-edged hem of her gown. Knightley folded the linen over her knees, but his fingers continued beneath, sinking into the softness of her thighs.

Without apprehension or embarrassment, Emma unfastened the ribbon of her gown, and slipped first one sleeve then the other from her shoulders. The loosened bodice fell lower, revealing the rapid rise and fall of her breathing, but the neckline held discreetly to the curve of her breasts.

Without a word, but holding her hazel eyes with devotion, Knightley freed her from the clinging garment. She gasped when the night air met her naked body, and her smooth skin rose in goose pimples. Gently, he cupped her full breasts in his palms and brushed his thumbs over the tender buds.

Emma raised her hands to his, pressing him to her heart. She felt as if she might melt and break apart at the same time, so powerful was this new sensation. Where a moment before her skin had been chilled, her taut nipples almost aching with desire, now heady warmth was flooding her from head to toe.

"Hold me," she whispered, parting her knees to allow her husband even closer.

Knightley opened her thighs, moving between her legs, and their heated bodies met in a fusion of pounding hearts and flushed skin. She wrapped her arms around his neck while he gripped her waist fiercely, pillowing her breasts against him.

He lowered her down onto the chill surface of the counterpane. Closing her eyes, she let him remove the last trace of her modesty, stripping the crumpled linen shift from underneath her, and then waited for him to take leave of the last barrier between them. Emma heard the soft sigh of fabric against flesh, and her breath caught nervously in her throat. When he came between her legs again, she could feel only the bare skin of his thighs between hers.

Suddenly ashamed of her own nakedness, she tried to hide her exposed sex, but he eased her hands away. Instead he covered her body with his own, laying his stomach over the mound of golden curls already wet for him, and resting his head on her breast.

Emma raked her fingers through the feathers of dark hair at the nape of his neck, holding onto him as he took the tip of one breast into his mouth, teasing her with his tongue, and then fondled her while he kissed the other breast. She arched her body beneath him, and felt the muscles of his stomach tense with control.

Emma gave herself to his caresses, responding to the stimulation of those strong fingers over every rise and hollow of her figure. She started with pleasure when he tenderly traced the swell of her breasts, but his hands quickly moved lower, following her slender waist to the gentle rise of her stomach, and then into the valley between her legs.

She could hear his breathing, slow sighs against her sharp gasps, and trembled when he drew her closer to the edge of the bed.

"Oh Emma, my love, forgive me," Knightley whispered.

Knowing what must happen now, aware that there would be pain with the pleasure, still Emma was unprepared for the moment when her husband entered her for the first time. Gritting her teeth, she balled the rough bedding into her fists and then lay still, waiting.

"Shall I stop?" she heard him ask softly.

Emma shook her head, and he moved further into her with a groan that was almost a sob. Holding onto her hips, Knightley slowly withdrew, and then sank himself back within her. When her hold on the sheets relaxed and her lips opened with a sigh, he started pushing harder, feeling her body responding to his.

She was lost to him. Covering his hands with hers, gripping him between her thighs, Emma held him inside of her. Indeed, every part of her was opening to his touch. The feeling inside was uncomfortable and stimulating at the same time, but she was no longer in charge of her own senses. She was suddenly moving in a natural rhythm with him that had been beyond her wildest thoughts but a moment before.

His thrusts became faster, more insistent, driving all the way into her. Emma rose up to meet his body, a surprised cry escaping her throat, and Knightley settled her back down onto the bed. She felt his seed burst within her, and he fell into her arms, both of them heaving with weary contentment.

Lowering his mouth to kiss away a bead of moisture between her breasts, Knightley then eased himself from upon – and within – her. She opened her eyes, but lay motionless before him, flushed and still trembling. He got to his feet, kicking away his tangled breeches, and held out his hands to her.

Accepting his strong, sure grasp, Emma rose from the bed and stood before her husband. She glimpsed at the part of him that was most private, lying almost flaccid but still swollen in the thatch of dark hair between his legs, and blushed with the knowledge of their intimacy.

"Do not be embarrassed, my dearest one," he said, lifting her face to meet her eyes. "We have done nothing shameful, and you look so natural."

At his words, Emma glanced down again, but this time at the signs of her own arousal, displayed in the sheen of her rosy skin and the firmness of her bare breasts. She threw herself into her husband's arms, hiding her body against his.

"I have never felt this way before," she whispered into the silky hairs on his chest.

"I am glad to hear it, my love," Knightley laughed, combing his fingers through her tangled curls. "I have always admired your beauty, Emma, but tonight you are truly radiant. It was no longer enough to simply view your delightful countenance or lose myself in your eyes, as I have contented myself with since our engagement."

Emma lifted her head to look at him. "More than _that_, surely?" she teased. "What about my private tour around Donwell, when Mrs Hodges was called away –"

Knightley fastened her lips with his own. "I am speaking of a more intimate appreciation of your person, which you have quite properly denied me access to before tonight."

She quirked an eyebrow at him, but a smile was playing on her lips. "And do you judge your patience and fortitude to have been rewarded?"

"As a promise for the future, I am satisfied indeed," he said, quickly anticipating any dispute.

Stripping back the rumpled counterpane, which bore the proof of their shared ardour, they tumbled onto the freshly laundered sheets of the bed. No longer self-conscious of her natural appearance, Emma stretched luxuriously against the soft feather mattress, enjoying contrast of temperatures against her flushed, glistening skin.

Knightley mirrored his wife's blissful smile, heartened to find her so completely at ease beside him in such a vulnerable state. They had always been comfortable together, sharing family life and social duties, personal views and often unpleasant home truths, and now they had this. He gazed lovingly at her tumble of golden hair, a shade darker at the brow and temples, and the fading blush that burned from her glowing cheeks to the pale, protected part of herself normally hidden away from public appreciation.

When Knightley pressed his lips to her breasts, kissing the silken halo around the tender tip of her nipple, she gave herself to the wicked pleasure. The gentle, stirring pressure of his tongue, while his hands moulded and caressed the fullness of her flesh, thrilled her senses, and she moved her thighs together, wanting to soothe the ache there but ashamed to touch herself.

"Come to me," he whispered, and she did, measuring his body with hers.

Knightley gathered her into his arms, pressing her heat to his growing hardness while their mouths met in a deep, consuming kiss. Emma groaned and broke the fevered embrace, shifting to look at him.

"Will it hurt you, my love?" he asked, startled by the look in her eyes.

"I know you could never hurt me," she reassured him.

Suddenly Emma existed only on a base level of physical pleasure, flooded with a deep, drowsy heat that heightened every sense but dulled her awareness. Miss Woodhouse of Hartfield would have been scandalised to witness Mr Knightley's hands gripping her bottom while she behaved more like an animal than a gentleman's daughter, with her sweat tangled hair and urgent movements. Mrs Knightley could not see herself, or hear her moans, as she joined her husband with frightening abandon. Now when she raised a hand to cover her breasts, pleasure not modesty guided her movements. She was no longer alarmed by the rude display of his desire, only impatient for him to push back within her aching body. Emma let him touch every part of her – kneading, kissing, tasting – while she followed the ridges of his spine to the flesh of his backside and held him close.

Release came in time for both of them, and Knightley fell back onto the covers with Emma clutched in his arms. She rested her head on his chest, listening to the beating of his heart beneath her ear. Strange, but she could no longer imagine how he looked every day, how he had appeared to her for years, formally attired from his neat white neck cloth to polished riding boots. Emma laughed.

"What has amused you?" he asked.

Emma looked up. "Only that I shall have to call you 'George' from now on," she told him. "Mr Knightley simply will not do, for a man who knows me so very well!"

"But when shall you call me 'George'?" he demanded playfully, squeezing her bottom. "All of the time, or only when we are alone?"

"When I _wish_ to be alone with you," she corrected, her fingers brushing over the fine hairs on his chest, "then I shall call you 'my darling George'."

"Will you grow used to the name?"

"Before the night is over," she sighed, and kissed him.


End file.
